Cross Country
by SunnyOrange
Summary: With airports, random strangers, ol' bitty with no filter, casual conversations, fear of flying, and unexpected seat-mates. It all adds up to make flying cross country quite the adventure. "Or so I tell myself". AU/One-shot.


**Disclaimer:**S. Meyers owns Twilight. No infringement meant.

**Cross Country**

"_Airplane travel is nature's way of making you look like your passport photo." —__Al Gore_

_..._

Edward's POV

.

Despite technological advances made, I still hate flying. Being able to have my tablet to watch movies, mp3 player to play music and first-class amenities to comfort me, helps somewhat. I really enjoy being able to do all this, but all these things don't help if the plane happens to fall from the sky.

Granted, planes don't just fall, but my vividly creative mind likes to think otherwise. If I were made of lesser stuff I'd probably assume the fetal position and wait for the plane to touch back down safely. But thankfully, I've come to regard flying as a necessary evil and just ride the storm.

The airport around me is a busy hive as people walk to and fro, gate attendances make necessary announcements, commuters shop in the little stores with overpriced items and security personal continues to monitor everything around them. It's like a little town all its own.

I take it all in, trying not to notice the exhaust smell all airports seem to have; no matter their ventilation system. The most exciting thing to me about being stuck here is people-watching. It is interesting to watch, basically, strangers interact with each other, starting up conversations with someone completely unknown to them.

I wonder what makes someone start talking to someone else, what makes them ask the first question to break the metaphorical ice between two strangers. Why even start conversing in the first place?

I'm not a stranger to conversation and the good it can have, but I am also introverted by nature. My mother calls me a born introvert.

I can all but hear her voice from past conversations, "_You think I taught you such behavior, Edward_?" She laughs at her simple question and I give her a blank stare. She isn't really moved or intimidated by it . . . _pity_.

"_It took all of my hard work and dedication to make you into the talker you even are today, darling_." Again, I try to give her the stink-eye, but she simply bats her lashes at me while smiling beatifically. My mother is made of something too stern . . . _pity_.

I shake my head and try to squash the grin wanting to overtake my lips. I know that if someone sees me smiling they'll take it as an invitation to start talking to me. I really can be quite friendly, but since I'm about to board a plane and fly off into the sky my social interactions remain at an all time low. I truly hate flying, airplanes and anything to do with being unnaturally suspended in the sky.

So, I pop in my ear-buds, pull out my tablet and pretend to read, while really people-watching. It is the only enjoyment I get out of airports.

I watch as passengers hurry from one gate to another, barely avoiding a fall or collision with someone else. A man walks out of the bathroom with toilet paper trailing behind him, and I do feel sorry for him even though I allow myself a little laugh. I may be mature, but that is always funny. I even see an oblivious person pick their nose and examine their find, as if they aren't surrounded by hundreds of people being able to see them.

I chat to myself, _don't eat that_ . . . _don't eat that_, but they are unable to hear my mental coaching as it passes their lips and slips down their throat.

Note to self, that was damn disgusting and apply hand sanitizer when seated.

Airports are such a bizarre place. With my stomach now in knots from both the bugger-eater and the anticipation of my flight, I have to close my eyes and try to calm myself. Stress always does awful things to my stomach.

Deep breathes help me to calm down. Telling myself how childish my fears are and how debilitating they can be helps to bring my anxiety down even further. I allow my eyes to stay closed for a few more seconds as my music switches over to something more classical. "Send in the Clowns" is quite beautiful and goes a long way to quelling my stomach spasms.

As the last bar of music is played, I open my eyes and sigh: music is a beauty unto its own. Though I'm still nervous, I feel somewhat better. Pushing terrible thoughts away, I once again began to people watch. As I zone in on a groups of teenage boys in front of me, I can't help but want to laugh at their expression.

If cartoons were real these, boys' eyes would be bugging out, with their tongues lolling out and drool seeping down their chins. I may not have yet spied the object of their affections, but that look on a boy is quite universal.

While trying to suppress my mirth, I turn from them and look in the direction their eyes are bugging out. The first thing to catch my notice is the long, long wheat-colored hair. There seems to be yards of it with all of it flowing like a river down her back. Instantly my fingers are begging me to sink into it. My fingers only usually feel that kind of itch for my piano.

The next thing one can't help but notice is the skinny jeans which mould so perfectly around shapely legs and even shapelier bum. Her legs seem even longer than the wheat-colored hair. My eyes helplessly trail up such gorgeous legs to her waist. Only an inch of skin is visible between her jeans and billowy top, but it has my own skin tingling. And though I can't see her arms through her shirt, I can only imagine them to be as sublime as the rest of her.

Three inch heels already add to her impressive height as she casually walks – making it seem as if she strolling down some damn catwalk of a runway – down to her parting terminal. Something inside me continues to twitch as I helplessly watch this beauty.

I could go on and wax-poetic about her face, the exquisiteness of it, the perfection of it, but with every guy staring at her as she walks by, speaks more eloquently than I ever could. Even Kate Upton pales in comparison to this exquisite ingénue.

My mind starts a running dialogue about how she's probably overrated and completely fake in every place imaginable. One can't be that beautiful and not utterly stuck up her own ass. This may be an unfair criticism, but having been burned before by someone of her bottled-colored hair, I tend to steer more towards brunets.

Even with the nasty diatribe running rampant in my mind, it still can't take away from her outwardly appeal. _Yet your above all that tripe, Edward_, I maturely remind myself. _It is what the inside holds more than the outside_. A lesson I'm more than familiar with.

Unsurprisingly, or perhaps more my fate for being so hateful and pessimistic, the blonde beauty turns abruptly and parks her gorgeous bum just to the right of my gate. _Of course_ . . .

The teenage boys I watched earlier are now in nirvana. Like some kind of magic wand was waved, they are now acting like teenage girls: giggling and leaning in close to each to probably gossip about the blonde's bust size. And it certainly didn't surprise me when several other men around her started to shift uncomfortably in their seats. I wondered if this woman had any idea the effect she had on those around her.

Several girls (and women alike) are sending her hateful glares while others seem somewhat intimidated by her. Through it all, the blonde keeps her head down and buried in some book that seems to capture her full attention. Surely she has to feel all the stares on her, but gives no indication she does.

I can't help wonder if these mannerisms of her are ingrained or something she painfully had to learn. But above everything else, I can't understand why she's even captured my attention, too. Oh, she's beautiful, there is no questioning that, but usually I'm not swayed by someone's outer-looks. It isn't that I am above that kind of judgment; I just know from personal experience what it feels like.

Yet there is truly something about this woman which calls to me. However, like others sitting near us, I won't be a slave to my baser instincts. I had played around much in my youth, but now that I'm sitting at 30's door, I yearn for more than the next one-nightstand. I want companionship and continuity . . . longevity. Call me 'a stick in the mud' but I am past all my early twenties bullshit.

So with swift action, I lower my head and refuse to look at the woman everyone can't look away from. I am even surprised some don't rush over to her and ask for an autograph – as if she were some kind of movie star. Not that I would be surprised.

The time seems to tick by slowly and my neck cramps as I refuse to look up any more. My book holds no interest for me; neither does any game loaded on my tablet. Even surfing the web bores me. The only thing my traitorous mind wants to focus on is the beauty that seems almost untouchable. Repeatedly, I start to list all her personality flaws. I may not know her; but someone of her ilk must be stuck-up, inanely stupid, vapid and distracted by anything shiny. It helps me to breathe easier as I constantly tell myself these things.

By the time I'm ready to pull my hair out, the gate-attendant announces pre-boarding for my flight number. "First-class passengers, please. First-class passengers only."

With a relieved breath I stand up, stow away my equipment (still leaving my ear-buds in but turning down the music) and make my way over to the ticket counter.

The gate attendant looks at me funnily as a low groan leaves my lips. In front of me, in all her splendid glory is the same person I've spent the last half-hour trying to avoid. She looks even more glorious up close and I wonder how in the hell that's possible. There must be some foreign fate laughing at me.

As the unknown temptress all but ignores me, handing her ticket over to the agent, I am a little peeved she hasn't noticed me. This is absolutely absurd thinking on my part so I quickly shut it down. The best thing I can do is hope we aren't seated next to each other and the plane doesn't crash. But even my usual fears are an afterthought after taking in the beauty in front of me.

"Sir, your ticket please. This is a full flight and we need to keep the line moving."

With pink-tinged cheeks at being essential caught daydreaming, I had my boarding ticket over and wait for her to scan it. I hurriedly take it back and make my way down the jetway.

Once inside the plane, I notice my blonde plane-mate is already seated, nose back in book, seatbelt buckled and things stowed. The girl seems faster than lightening, as if she blinked and was simply teleported to her seat – not one hair out of place.

If by some small miracle, I am not seated next to the beauty but behind her. Many baseless jokes run through my mind at the image, but I ignore them. After situating myself and waiting for the rest of the plane to load, once again the painful swells start in my stomach.

Being on a plane is the biggest pain yet unfortunately I have to travel this way often for work.

While fidgeting around, I once again distract myself with unkind thoughts about the woman in front of me. She must be one of the most stuck-up persons to ever cross my path. I don't know this girl . . . woman from Adam or anything about her, but being negative in regards to her is somewhat helpful in keeping my thoughts occupied with other things.

A sweet, soft voice pulls me from my wanderings. I look around, waiting to see a little girl with a cherubim face appear, but once again am surprised. I should have known her voice would match her utter beauty. Most would think she had a deep sultry voice, but it sounds more like innocent church bells.

". . . trade seats if possible," I hear spoken softly to the bemused flight attendant. He looks almost in a trance looking at her.

I push the mush from my head and play closer attention. No matter how much I've mentally trashed this lovely vision in front of me, she's unknowingly helped to keep me distracted. I can't have her leaving somewhere else. I look beyond her and at the line of people waiting to take their seats.

Discretely, she is pointing at two servicemen dressed in Army fatigues. I do a quick mental recalculation in my head and realize what she means.

With the plane full and no more seats available in our first-class cabin, this woman is trying to give up her seat to one of the soldiers on our flight.

Thick guilt is quick to swamp me. From the moments I laid eyes on her, I've done nothing but negatively judge her, thinking there was nothing beyond her vapid veneer. That surely she was nothing but hot air and bleached blonde. I can hear my mother's voice disappointingly reprimanding me.

The flight attendant discreetly leaves her as she gets up and gather's her belongings. No matter how much she tries to be inconspicuous, someone of her stature cannot be ignored. Eyes automatically follow her (mine included), as she waits for the flight attendant to return. He whispers something in her ear, causing her to nod.

With little fanfare and a slight nod of welcome to the Army soldier now taking her first-class seat, she makes her way past me to what I can only assume is his now vacant seat. I am blown away by her actions and can't help but wonder what makes her want to pay it forward.

Something inside me wants to know, it's begging for me to solve the mystery of this unknown entity that doesn't even know I exist.

It doesn't take me more than five seconds to stand up and now offer my first-class seat to the other officer present.

After going through the same routine as my mystery girl before me, I pull my things from overhead and shake the hand of the person now accepting my seat.

"It's the least I can do," I honestly say, not really knowing what the hell is going on with me. I must have lost my mind to this woman I don't even know. "Thanks for your service," I can't help adding. Because at the end of the day, it is truly the men and women who risk their lives for freedom that even allow me to fly safely in the waiting skies.

After getting my new seat assignment and making my way back, good fortune must be smiling down on me. Seated in the one next to mine is none other than the girl of my daydreams.

Again her nose is stuck in her book, but I think nothing of it this time. I stow my things in their new place and start to cram my long legs in the small seat next to this selfless woman. A small grin helplessly takes over my lips as I watch the small screen and listen to the safety information I can quote verbatim.

For the first time in recent memory, I am actually looking forward to flying in a mental contraption that has no business being thirty-seven thousand feet in the air.

.

.

.

I still haven't found the courage to actually speak up yet. It is so embarrassing that my hands are sweating like some prepubescent boy with a first crush. It also doesn't help that my legs are cramping in this small space. Being six-two isn't helpful, but I don't regret for one moment giving up my first-class seat. I was taught quite the lesson today, and this is small punishment for my terrible thoughts.

Only four hours remain in this cross country flight, and I better shore up my flailing courage or I won't get this opportunity again. There is just something about this woman next to me, casually touching my elbow on the armrest that calls out, yet making me feel clumsy and inept.

Before I get the courage to speak or even make a fool of myself – was I really about to say, "tight, right," referring to the limited amount of space (face-palm) – she softly speaks up while unknowingly saving me. "Would you mind terribly if I pass by you?"

_That and much more_, I wanted to embarrassingly shout, but reigned myself in.

"Um," I mumble stupidly, "Sure . . ."

Perhaps the plane now free falling from the sky wouldn't be the worst thing. I am making a complete ass out of myself.

Quickly I get up, allowing her the room to move. If anything her short absence will give me the respite I need to punch myself while willing my cheeks from red to a dull pink.

After a few minutes of trying to get myself under control and seeing a mocking smirk on the face of some pimply teen boy, she returns. I bump my knees hard on the seat in front of me while in a hurry to get up.

Getting a tongue-lashing from the older lady in front of me sure doesn't help to get the tomato color from my cheeks and now neck. This situation is simply going from bad to worse. ". . . . And be careful next time, young man. You young people are always in a hurry to do something. Not the way to impress that pretty girl sitting next to you, either. A woman likes longevity if you understand my meaning."

_What the hell, did that old lady just call me out? And my staying power? Truly this is the flight from hell_.

"Sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again," I nicely apologize, while wishing her dentures would slip out and bite her tongue.

I don't even have the courage to look at my seat-mate as she slips by me and buckles her safety belt. Hurriedly I sit back down, push my ear-buds back in; and try to ignore the giggling around me, my inflamed face and the fact I've completely ruined any chance at talking to this exquisite woman beside me.

I'm not sure how much more time this flight has, but I know it won't be quick enough. Again, I feel the need to punch myself, but refrain. It will only cause me more embarrassment.

Thankfully the music now filling my ears is wonderfully calming. Once I feel my blood pressure lowering, I exhale. I don't know how much more of this I can take, especially my manhood being called into question, by some lady who's liable to break a hip in her advanced age if she even tries to (for lack of a better term) get it on.

Something nudging my clasped fingers startles me out of my acerbic mutterings. With caution I open my eyes and take in a piece of paper trying to make its way into my clasped fingers. I loosen the grasp I have on my hands, allowing the paper to settle in my palm.

I still lack the courage to look over, yet something inside me starts to spark. I squash it down. I don't need any hope sparking something dangerously embarrassing inside me. For all I know this could be some kind of hate note.

"_That lady was awfully rude, wasn't she? Maybe you shouldn't mention to her that her smelling like hundreds of cat is also offending. It will only bring you down to her gnarled knees. And imagine the mothballs you'd find back there _. . ."

I have to put my hand over my lips to stop the offending laughter that threatens to burst out. A huge swell of relief is quick to fill me, yet alone trying to pull back on the huge smile now covering my face.

While I start searching for a pen, I fell something else being pushed into my right hand. _Beautiful and practical, such a winning combination_.

Quickly I write a reply and hand the note back. Something warm swims in my chest, reminding of such simpler times and happy innocent memories of youth.

Sweet, soft giggles brings more warmth to my chest. I don't know this person sitting next to me in the least, yet she is able to invoke things in me never felt and hoped for. I want to reach out and touch her, making sure this moment is real, not contrived to help me deal with my fear of flying.

The paper being pushed back into my hand helps me to realize this is real indeed.

Anticipation is building as I open the note and read her reply beneath mine . . .

"_I fear she would tear me down even further if I called her out. I think she's given those closest to us enough fodder on my behalf and that of my manhood. But if her support hoes were to tangle around her calves and knock her over, I would have to simply step over her and continue on. Do you think that's mean? (trying not to cackle)"_

She responds . . .

"_It would be well deserved on her part. Yet I would shudder if said support hoes were to come down and show us something even more unpleasant than airplane food, yeah?_"

Instead of writing my reply, I take courage from her note and slightly face her; I can still feel the heat in my cheeks. Her gorgeous golden hair spills over her shoulders while violet (I know, right . . . who the hell actually has violet-colored eyes) twinkle with merriment. Her skin is smooth and absent of makeup. No wonder she got such glares from the other women around her. Such effortless beauty should be a crime.

"I think airlines are too cheap to provide food these days. At least to us slummin' it back here in coach." I can't help but wink, letting her know of my jest.

After her sweet church bell laugh fades, her visage turns more sober. I wonder if it's something I said or if I was looking at her like some kind of leering creep. Her words, however, give me comfort, "That was terribly nice of you, giving up your seat like that."

I want to laugh in astonishment, but refrain. Is this woman for real . . .

I was even surprised she had noticed me to begin with. Her nose had seemed too far pressed in her book to notice anything or anyone around her.

"I saw someone paying it forward and decided to do something myself. Must give credit where credit is due."

A self-conscious, wobbly smile breaks over her lips. I can tell I've embarrassed her by calling her out.

"It was nothing. They deserve so much more than just a first-class seat."

Hungrily I study her exquisiteness. She is sublime in every aspect. I find myself totally entranced by this stranger. Can she feel her pull over me?

"You seem to speak from personal experience," I say out of turn, just noticing how personal I've become with this mysterious woman. "Sorry, way over the line." I go to turn away, to simply superglue my lips shut for the rest of this god-forsaken flight. I have reached my expiration date long ago and now need to be thrown out.

"No . . . it's okay . . ." she pauses, waiting for me to fill in some blank. I stare at her, not really knowing what she requires of me. A tinkling sound leaves her parted lips. "This is the part where you provide your name, stranger."

"It might be better if I bury my head in the lavatory for the rest of the flight," I reply in all seriousness.

"Then whom would I talk to for the rest of this flight? Flying is terribly boring to me and sadly I can't sleep." I give her a thankful grin for both the save and reprieve. This girl is too good to be true.

Instead of asking her rhetorical question I answer the original request, "Edward. My name's Edward Cullen." Without asking she reaches over and clasps my sweaty hand into her delicate one.

"Rosalie Hale." Graciously she doesn't even comment on the wet marks I leave behind as _Rosalie_ (sweet name) gently drops my hand and folds hers.

"Sorry about that . . . and earlier. For being too personal and all that, you know." _Shut up now_, I demand of myself. _What the hell is wrong with me_?

"It's okay, Edward. You didn't offend me, so no harm done." My name has never sounded so pleasant as it does when Rosalie says it. I feel like a preteen with a crush on the latest heartthrob. Gag me now.

"Um, to answer your earlier question, I do have personal experience with soldiers. My father is a General and my older brother, um well, he served a few years ago, but his helicopter was shot down by enemy fire . . . so yeah."

I wonder how far I have to open my mouth before my foot can be inserted. Not only had I crossed a line, but I put such a sad face on this unknown Rosalie. I am bang out of order.

As if seeing my thoughts, I hear her start to console me and my major blunders, "You're fine, Edward." I give her a disbelieving look, which thankfully puts a smile back on her lips. "Really. I love my brother and I'm very proud of him. It doesn't matter how long he's been gone. I'll always be proud of Jasper. It's just grief is something you can't really control, you know.

I am intrigued with this Rosalie Hale. Here we've truly just properly met, and she's giving me life lessons learned from personal experience. Had I not wondered earlier how conversations between strangers were started?

"I have my moments of being okay and focusing only on happy memories. But then these unexpected moments will come up and choke me. Like, something will sporadically remind me of Jasper and all of a sudden a tidal wave of grief will overtake me." Her eyes become unglazed as she looks over to me. I hope she can see the intrigue I feel when listening to and watching her expressive face.

"Sorry," she's quick to apologize, a slight pinkness stealing over her cheeks. "Sometimes I get caught up without realizing."

I'm quick to joke, wanting to relieve her worry, "As if I have room to talk. Do you not remember my blunders from fifteen minutes ago?"

Mission accomplished, she laughs. The sound and look of her only adds to her allure.

"I guess we're two strangers with boundary problems," she jests back.

"To say the least . . ." We both fall into a small silence, letting our embarrassment and serious conversation flow away.

Strangely, I feel rather bereft without hearing the sound of her voice. There must be something in the air on this plane because I am acting completely out of character. I don't wax-poetic about women. I don't get personal with strangers. I don't pry into their lives. I usually don't make an ass out of myself and I'm usually too afraid on planes to even make conversation.

Yet here I am, doing everything differently . . . all because of some sublime face and a seemingly deep person beside me. I don't know how to really get a handle on this situation, so I decide to simply roll with it. What other option do I have? I could allow the silence to reign and mind my own business for the remainder of the flight, but it actually bothers me to even contemplate that option.

Plus, I didn't give up my first-class seat and follow this woman to sit silently beside her. Something I'm just now realizing.

With only really one alternative left, I open my mouth and try to remain within proper boundaries. I start with a neutral question, one I usually hear asked on a plane full of strangers, "Are you from New York, or were you just there on vacation?" _There, not too personal_.

As if reading my mind, a knowing grin spreads over Rosalie's lips and off she goes, "I'm actually from New York . . . born upstate. But I've lived in California for most of my life. My father has been stationed there a while. And I was on assignment in New York . . . well, more as a personal favor."

I'm so intrigued by everything she says. She could probably be talking about watching grass grow and I'd be captivated. Some people have that certain something about them, and I for sure know she does.

"What about you? Do you live in New York or California? We are after all flying cross country from one place to the other. Or is this a connecting flight from somewhere else?"

I love that she wants to ask me questions in return. It shows she has some kind of interest in me. If she were to find out just how much I have in her, and in such a short time, Rosalie would probably run as far as this tin can allows.

"No, I'm from New York. I'm a freelance journalist, actually. A magazine has hired me to essentially blog about experiences, food, culture, nature and people I come across in California. It's probably been done before, but they feel I can bring a unique prospective and writing style to the assignment. They'll publish the more popular articles in print."

I am self-conscious in telling her this. I don't want her thinking I am simply puffing myself up or boasting about my "unique" abilities. But this assignment was quite the coup for me and with such a prominent magazine.

"Wow! That sounds really fun and exciting. Congratulations, Edward." I try not to look to sheepish with her praise and accept it like a grown up, but the hold she had over me is causing me to feel too warm all over. Like receiving her praise is some monumental achievement.

"Um, yeah, thanks. I'm actually quite excited."

"Plan on starting anywhere in particular? I do know a little about the area . . . well, depending on where you're planning to go." She gives me a playful wink, sending my stomach on a free fall.

She probably knows more than just a little; and something inside me wants her opinion, wants her input on what she thinks of the area, what she loves and dislikes the most.

"To start, I'd actually like to do something off the beaten path, or something not really explored all that much. Difficult – I know – to find in California, but I still would like to start with that. And perhaps eat at some hole-in-the-wall place, but has people lined around the block just to eat there. Know any such place?" I waggle my eye-brows, playfully challenging her.

She gives me her beautifully rich laugh once more before giving me her answer, "Well, taking a stroll or boat ride along the Venice Canals is a must and–"

"Venice Canals?" I can't help but ask, rudely interrupting her. I look at her askance.

A knowing grin is worming its way onto her flushed cheeks.

"Yes, _Edward_," she over pronounces my name as if exacerbated with me. But I know it to be in good fun, the smile playing on her lips gives her away. "The Venice Canals near Venice Beach. They are a must see and somewhat off the beaten trail."

"Ah, those canals," I mischievously croon, trying to save face. "I knew that." Her elbow is a little sharp as she playfully jabs me in the chest. Yet I can't help but laugh with her.

"Sure, I completely believe you . . ."

And off we go, discussing things to do, not just around L.A., but around other areas of So-Cal and Orange County.

Our conversation flows so easily it scares even me. I'm not a real sociable person by nature, loving more my music and books to people. I can come out of my shell and surprisingly have a natural gift of conversing with other. I just choose when to use it and when not to.

I know I've become too jaded with the world and current events. But taking this job and seeing some of the wonders (both consequential and not) will do me good. It will be a chance to think outside of myself and – if but for a moment – walk in other's footprints.

Rosalie's beautiful narrative and attention to detail has me even more excited. As she explains the area, I can feel her true love for it and a real interest in what she's telling me. It isn't just some small talk to fill in some long flight.

As if knowing my last thought, the Captain of the plane starts to tell us about our descent into the area and encourages the flight attendants to prepare for landing.

"Well, that went by rather quickly. Never really happened to me before," I tell her honestly. She's made this flight one to truly remember.

"Sorry if I seemed to have monopolized your time. When started or encouraged, I have a tendency to rattle on. Well, at least with those I feel comfortable with." A pinkish hue only adds to her healthy allure.

I want to run my fingers over her skin, want to feel the warmth of it, but I can't. We are nowhere near that comfortable with each other . . . yet I feel a longing to be.

"Rosalie?" I wait until she looks at me. She's so exquisite. "You've made this flight bearable for me, too. Even more so." Time to be truthful, "I have a terrible fear of flying and usually keep silent and wait for the damn thing to be over with. But you were able to make me forget about being in the air and needing to be scared. So really, thanks for that."

"Glad my mouth has a greater purpose," she jokes and only just catches onto the words she said. Her cheeks turn a shade of crimson.

"I'm sure that young man beside you would agree, dear," I hear the old woman in front of us say.

_What the hell is it with that old lady and getting in my business_? Both Rosalie and I have to look away after her inappropriate comment. But I can hear her laughter through the fingers covering her mouth . . . not to mention some of the people sitting around us. I'm glad we could be the comic relief of those sitting near us.

Thankfully the flight attendant comes around and starts collecting our trash and distracting others.

After stowing away my tablet (I had been showing Rosalie some of my recent pictures I'd taken and some of my articles I'd written, not to mention looking up some places she was telling me about) and other random items, I turn back to her.

I can tell she is still a little embarrassed about earlier comments, not that I'm any different. That old lady needs to lower the volume on her hearing aid.

"So, we're almost there." And for that I'm both happy and sad. I can't wait to get off this flying tin can, but find myself feeling lonely with not being in Rosalie's company. _So strange_.

"Yeah, good to be back home. I've been in New York for over a month, so I'll be happy to be home for a while."

The silence becomes thick and I can't help wonder if Rosalie is waiting for me to ask her something, something I truly want to ask.

When several more minutes of uncomfortable silence passes by, I finally gather the courage to ask, but someone strikes before me.

"Listen, young man," I hear spoken in front of me. I want to bury my face in my hands and ask for death to come collect this woman. Surely she's past her prime and has lived a full life. It must be her time to go.

I look up and see her creased face peering in between the crack of her seat. "We're almost there, and if you can go on and on talking that pretty girl's ears off, then you can ask that girl for her digits, or whatever you kids are calling it these days. Get some courage, boy, the girl obviously likes you."

And with such unwarranted sage advice, the lady turns around mumbling about youth being wasted on the young; which seems like an oxymoron to me. I wonder if my genitals will unravel from the vice grip she's put them in.

Again, I hear snickering around us. I don't think I'd be held accountable by a jury if I were to drown this lady in the germ-infested toilet passing for a bathroom on this plane. I am now quite certain she is past her prime and can feel The Grim breathing down her neck. Yet she seems unconcerned with him and more with my personal life. _Crazy old goat_.

A paper being pushed into my clasped fist brings me out of my lovely daydreams and back into my humiliation. Warm, delicate fingers squeezes my fist comfortingly before letting go.

With just that one act of kindness, I feel immensely better. Tingles erupt and travel the length of my body. Her light touch is enough to seemingly ignite me.

I quickly look over to her and see nothing but a gentle smile, pen still clutched in her other hand.

My eyes take in what she's written; my lips are soon turning up in the corners.

'_Perhaps her hearing-aids will come into contact with water and complete the process of her losing her hearing. Obvious her old age hasn't accomplished that yet. One can only hope it's soon, right? _

_Rosalie Hale_

_555- . . ._

_Call me some time, Edward_.'

I can't even suppress the mega-watt smile if I wanted to. This Rosalie Hale has been quite the surprise I always dread happening to me on a plane, only this time it has been the most wonderful and lasting surprise.

"I will," I whisper softly, leaning in closer to her. Thankfully the old lady with the seemingly perfect hearing stays quiet, for which I'm glad.

Reaching over, I take her hand with the pen still in it and remove it from her fingers. I know it is rude and awfully bold of me, but I feel as if I can jump from this plane and still land on my feet.

Carefully, I scribble out my own number on the palm of her hand, watching her as I do. Rosalie's eyebrows rise at my audacity, but I know she doesn't hold it against me. The beguiling twinkle to her eyes tells me as much.

I can't help but be even cheekier as I write under my number, 'tomorrow'. And it's a promise I intend to keep.

Rosalie bits her lips as she reads my one-word message, and I wonder if she's trying to suppress a groan, laugh or silly smile.

Before I can ask, I feel the wheels of the plane hit the runway, and for that I am always eternally grateful. And though I am still oddly sad at the prospect of being without this stranger beside me, I feel good too.

Once again, I start to wonder what makes a person start a conversation. What makes a person reach beyond their comfort limit and start to talk to someone completely unknown? Why even start?

With Rosalie Hale beside me and smiling softly, our arms casually touching on the armrest, I know now some of those answers.

_Perhaps flying isn't all that bad_, I can't help but think as we taxi into our final gate.

"Young men these days have no hair on their balls like men from my generation," I hear the old goat bleating again to the passenger next to her; and of course the accompanying laughter at her missing filter.

Okay, so I was wrong, flying is still the damn pits. Rosalie Hale has become the exception.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Notes:** This was just a little something I wrote after having to fly cross country myself. I always wonder what Edward does, and this little fluffy piece was born. And I am one of those ones who starts conversations with those around me. Perhaps to the annoyance of many. LOL. If you have any funny stories, I'd love to read them.

Anyhow, hope you enjoyed. Until next time, love and hugs.


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